Ink on linen:
black smudge, then brown.
I’m purging myself Galen-style.
Yellow smudge, red smudge - some housewife I’ll be,
with whorish red lipstick
to blur the lines.
I am taunted by her:
sensible, feminine, put-together.
Her voice is strong
and mine is not.
Scrub the smudge,
rub it til it goes, she tells me.
She's in my stomach.
Now the smudge is in my head.
Either way, it’s in my skin, not yours.
This linen isn’t new, you know.
I’m not freshly made
or ironed out.
Creases will come with time.
I’ve been slept in before.
You say my embrace is all the warmer, and my kisses are softer, but still she’d rather I were new.